Brompton Cemetery

I've ended up in Brompton Cemetery in Chelsea twice in the last month. Maybe I'm drawn to both the fetid stench of death and the fetid stench of wealth.

I bet the funeral for the person buried here wasn't one of those 'no one's allowed to wear black and there's a great party afterwards' type affairs. It was probably raining and people were really upset and angry, but in a stiff-upper lipped, Victorian way.


Squirrel on a grave.


Crow on a grave.

There were also crypts you could see into with cracked wooden coffins gathering dust in them. For some reason I didn't take a photos of any of them, but next time I will. Also I'm going to get a camera which isn't attached to a phone.

Office hessian

The old adage is true: you can't fit a square peg in a round hole, some people are physically not built for the office environment. I reckon let this young cub free to street drink, pick people up and do bumps off of plectrums in the wild, he is clearly struggling in captivity- look at his sad eyes.